Trial by Fire
by Deana
Summary: After the war, the people of Paris are angry, and take out their hate for the Spanish on Aramis. Entry for the April 'Fete des Mousquetaires' contest!
**Trial by Fire**
A Musketeers story by Deana

Entry for the April 'Fete des Mousquetaires' contest!

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"This part of Paris sure looks different."

Aramis looked at Porthos and nodded quietly. The street that that they were walking through had suffered a lot of damage in the war. Spain had left a blemish on France, and he knew that it would take time to rebuild.

As the two of them walked, Aramis suddenly felt melancholy. He'd been born and raised in France, yet he couldn't deny the fact that Spanish blood ran through his veins from his mother's side of the family. He never considered himself to be anything other than a Frenchman, but it was disturbing sometimes to realize that he'd fought against men that may've been unknown relatives.

"Somethin' wrong?" Porthos asked.

Aramis shrugged. "I've always considered myself to be French, and only French, but..."

"Your Spanish blood," said Porthos.

Aramis nodded. "It makes things a little difficult, sometimes."

Porthos understood, and as they passed a tavern, he said, "Let's have a drink."

Aramis sighed; the tavern was very noisy and he didn't feel like going inside. "How about you buy a bottle and we'll drink it somewhere else?"

Porthos nodded. "All right." With that, he went in.

Aramis stayed outside and walked a few steps away, inhaling the warm night air and letting it out in another sigh. The noise accidentally helped to disguise the sound of a man creeping up behind him, and Aramis never expected it when something hard suddenly connected with the side of his head.

Stars filled Aramis' vision and he fell, but he tried to grab something to keep himself upright. It didn't work, for hands violently pushed him to the ground before someone kicked him and grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head up so another set of hands could tie a handkerchief around his mouth before Aramis had a chance to call for help.

The entire thing had taken less than twelve seconds to transpire, and the half-conscious Aramis found himself being dragged by his arms behind two men. He had no way of pulling himself loose or kicking his attackers, and he suddenly wished that he had gone into the tavern after all.

The two men dragged him down an alley and eventually into a building, and by the time they got there, Aramis had regained enough of his senses to attempt fighting back. The instant they let go of him, Aramis tried to stand, but didn't even have time to draw back a fist before two more men grabbed him and held him firmly in place, his arms twisted up behind himself.

"You're Spanish," said one of the men who'd attacked him outside.

"French," said Aramis, wincing from the pain in his arms that his captors were inflicting.

The man who spoke punched Aramis in the face. "I heard what you said to your friend outside!"

Aramis saw stars again, and had to think for a moment to try to remember. "My mother was partly Spanish," he told them, lifting his hanging head. "I was born and raised in France."

"How do we know that?" said the man.

"Because I'm a musketeer," Aramis answered.

The man stepped forward and moved Aramis' cloak away from his right shoulder, exposing his pauldron. "You could be a Spanish spy!"

Aramis blinked. "I've been a musketeer since the regiment was founded!"

"Well, you aren't anymore!"

A punch to the stomach had Aramis reflexively double over, and the two men restraining him tightened their hold as the other two men hit and kicked Aramis to their heart's content before tossing him to the ground.

Aramis fought to breathe as his ribs protested the motion. When his arms were grabbed again and they started to drag him once more, he wasn't very surprised, and wondered where they were bringing him next.

"Enjoy the rest of your life down there," a voice said. "It won't be very long."

 _Down where?_ Aramis opened his eyes, in time to find them in another room…a room with a very big hole in the floor. Before he had a chance to react, he was pushed in.

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When Porthos left the tavern, he was surprised to not find his friend nearby. "Aramis?" he called. He walked off in one direction, before turning and going back. "Aramis!"

"They took 'im."

Porthos turned, to see a man sitting on the ground against the tavern. "Took him where?"

"That way," said the obviously drunken man, gesturing.

Porthos hurried over to him and knelt. "Who were they and where would they go?"

"Pierre," said the drunk. "And 'is brother. There's an empty building," the drunk continued. "Was bombed in the war. Go that way," He gestured again. "Turn right, go down the alley and go left for a while, and it's on the right. I mean left. No, the right…oh, you'll know it when you see it." With that, he gulped more wine from the bottle in his hand.

Porthos shook his head. "Show me," he said, grabbing the man by his shirt and yanking him to his feet. He forced the man to walk and followed him to the mangled building, which turned out to be nowhere near where the drunken man had said. Porthos quietly crept inside, quickly moving from room to room without finding anyone. Just when he'd made himself accept the fact that the men had obviously taken Aramis somewhere else, he spotted the massive hole in the floor in the room furthest from the door, and his heart sunk when he looked down and saw his friend lying at the bottom. "Aramis!" he called.

He received no answer.

Porthos hooked his pistol back onto his belt and sat on the floor before sliding off the edge and lowering himself to hang. He dropped down into the hole, quickly rushed over to his friend, and knelt beside him, checking for a pulse. He sighed with relief when he found it. "Aramis?" he said, moving the hair out of his friend's face.

Aramis remained unconscious.

Porthos quickly checked him over for broken bones and was relieved to find none. He was afraid to turn him onto his back, not knowing what injuries Aramis had sustained that he couldn't see, but he didn't have to wonder for long, for Aramis suddenly groaned.

"Hey," Porthos said, putting a hand on his friend's back. "Don't move."

Aramis didn't react to his voice. He winced and groaned again.

"Where are you hurt?" Porthos asked.

It was almost ten seconds before Aramis manage to speak. "Porthos?" he mumbled.

"Yeah. Can you move?"

Aramis shifted slightly before giving a cry of pain and halting.

Porthos grabbed his arm. "What is it?"

Aramis' eyes were squeezed shut and he was gasping.

"Aramis," Porthos said, nervously. "Tell me!"

"S-shoulder," Aramis said.

Porthos frowned. Neither of them were dislocated, he'd already checked. "Right or left?"

"Left."

"Can I turn you over?" Porthos asked.

Aramis nodded.

Porthos carefully rolled him to the right, his eyes opening wider when he saw blood drying down the left side of his friend's head.

Aramis sucked in a pained gasp and winced, his right hand moving towards his left shoulder.

Porthos grabbed his wrist. "Let me look first," he said.

Aramis automatically tried to pull his arm away at first, and it took a few seconds for the words to sink in. His eyes were closed, and Porthos wondered if he wasn't completely coherent.

He gently placed Aramis' arm back down before unbuckling his friend's belts, noticing that all of his weapons were gone. "Aramis," he said, wanting to keep him talking to keep him awake. "What happened?"

Aramis didn't answer, eyes closed, breathing harshly.

"Aramis," Porthos said, undoing the clasps on his friend's jacket. "Aramis?"

"I hear you," Aramis mumbled.

"Then answer my question."

Aramis opened his eyes for a couple of seconds as he appeared to think. "Question?"

Porthos sighed. "Yeah; it was 'what happened'?"

Aramis closed his eyes again, but instead of answering, he groaned.

Porthos saw why. He opened Aramis' jacket and pulled the collar of his shirt over to see his friend's shoulder, and spotted deep bruising already forming over his collarbone, which had obviously snapped from the impact of being thrown down the hole. The skin seemed to be turning deeper purple right before his eyes, as broken blood vessels inside continued to bleed. "Aramis?"

"Mmm?"

"Your collarbone is broken," Porthos told him.

"Thought so," Aramis replied, still wincing.

"Should I bind your arm to your chest?" he asked.

Aramis nodded.

"Gotta sit you up, then," Porthos said.

Aramis gave no reply and he didn't try to move, making Porthos think that he still wasn't completely aware. He scooted to his friend's right side and shoved an arm under him. "Up you go," he said.

Aramis sucked in his breath and held it, wisely letting Porthos do all the work. Once sitting up against the wall, his head protested the new position and dizzily dropped forward, only for him to quickly pull it back up with a gasp of pain from what the movement did to his collarbone.

Porthos grabbed his good shoulder and put his other hand on the side of Aramis' face to keep his head steady. "Take it easy!" he said.

Aramis groaned again.

Porthos hated seeing his closest friend in so much pain, and he squeezed his good shoulder before letting go and pushing Aramis' hair out of his face. "Just keep still, all right?"

Aramis' eyes were closed and he gave no reply. His breathing was still harsh and stuttery, and Porthos suddenly wondered if injured ribs—not just the pain from his shoulder and head—were making him breathe that way.

With a sigh, Porthos told himself to deal with one thing at a time, and he knew that he had to check Aramis' ribs before he bound his arm. Gently, he took hold of his friend's shirt and lifted it, spotting more bruises. "Any ribs broken?" he asked.

"No."

"Are you positive?" Porthos asked, gently touching the darkest spot.

Aramis winced. "Yes. Bruised."

"I can see that," Porthos told him, lowering his shirt back down. He took hold of Aramis' bad arm next and gently bent it at the elbow, laying the forearm on Aramis' lap before taking his blue sash and carefully tying it as a sling under the arm and around his neck. Once that was done, he took the length of material that still hung and snuggly wrapped it around Aramis' arm and body.

Aramis groaned softly when Porthos pulled him away from the wall to get the material behind his back, but made no other reaction.

Once Porthos was finished, he looked for the wound on the side of Aramis' head and found that it'd mostly stopped bleeding. There was nothing he could do for it, and he looked at his friend with a sigh. "You're a right mess, Aramis," he said. "Any injuries I missed?"

Aramis seemed to hesitate, before shaking his aching head slightly.

"Why'd you hesitate?" Porthos asked. "Are you hurt somewhere else?"

"No, just bruised," Aramis said.

Porthos supposed it could've been assessment rather than hesitation. "You 'd better not be lyin'."

"I'm not," Aramis told him.

Porthos nodded—not that Aramis could see it with his eyes closed—and he suddenly realized that it was growing dark and cold. How was he going to get Aramis out of the hole when he only had one usable arm? He went over to the edge, and realized that he had no way of climbing up…it was smooth wall all around them.

"Porthos," he suddenly heard.

Porthos turned to look at his friend, before crossing over to him and kneeling. "What is it?"

"We aren't getting out tonight," Aramis told him, eyes half-open. "Sit down."

Porthos was shocked at his words. "I can't leave you down here all night, sitting here in pain!"

Aramis smiled slightly and closed his eyes again. "Pain here, or pain at the garrison…it's still pain."

"But at the garrison, you'd be in your warm bed," said Porthos.

"You can't climb out," Aramis told him.

Porthos knew that he was right, and he was glad at least that Aramis finally appeared to be fully coherent.

"Could use that wine right now," Aramis suddenly said.

Porthos' eyes opened wider. "He stole it! He stole my wine!"

"Who?"

"The drunk who saw you get grabbed," Porthos told him. "He stole my wine and I didn't even notice!"

Aramis chuckled, before holding his breath with a wince.

"Take it easy," Porthos said. He sat beside his friend and slid an arm behind his back, sitting close to lend body heat and comfort.

Aramis leaned his head on his friend's shoulder.

Porthos could feel his friend shaking, and he tightened his hold. "Try to sleep," he said.

Aramis sighed. "I doubt I'll be able to," he said, his voice sounding weak. "But if I do, you can't let me sleep too long."

Porthos knew what that meant: Aramis had a concussion. "All right."

Fifteen minutes later, it was dark enough that it was getting harder for Porthos to see his injured friend, who was quietly trying to rest. Porthos felt it every time Aramis tensed up from the pain, and it was very upsetting. "You don't have to hold it in, you know," he said, as he looked up at the sky through the hole in the roof from the Spanish bomb. "It's just you and me here."

Aramis let out a ragged breath. "I'm fine." Truth be told, if Aramis let himself groan, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop.

"You're anything _but_ fine," Porthos said, tightening the hold that he still had around his friend's back.

Aramis sighed again.

A minute passed in silence, before Porthos asked, "What happened? I asked you before, but you weren't all there in the head."

"They heard us."

Porthos frowned. "Heard us what?"

"They heard our conversation," said Aramis, eyes still closed. "About me being Spanish."

Porthos turned his head to look at him. "What?! They beat you for being Spanish?"

Aramis nodded slightly against his shoulder.

"I'll kill 'em," Porthos said, shifting his position. "I'll kill 'em! I thought it was a random robbery or somethin'!"

Aramis suddenly inhaled sharply with a groan that he couldn't hold back, and Porthos tried to suppress his temper, realizing that he'd jostled him. "I'm sorry!" he exclaimed.

Aramis shook harder, breathing harshly from the spike of pain that filled his shoulder, chest, and ribs. His head was throbbing and dizziness overcame him, even with his eyes closed.

Porthos tightened his hold around his friend's back again, running his hand up and down Aramis' good arm in comfort.

What Aramis was able to speak again, he said, "I don't…understand." Pain could be heard in his voice.

"What they did?" Porthos asked.

Aramis nodded against his friend's shoulder. "I've never been…the subject of…prejudice before." He tensed up from the pain again and went silent.

Porthos knew the feeling well. "It's not easy and it's never fair."

Aramis was quiet for a minute or two, before saying, "I'm French. A musketeer."

"People don't care about the facts, they only care about what they see," Porthos said. "Or in your case, what they _heard_. There are fools everywhere, and all we can do is wait and hope that things will change someday."

Aramis sighed, eyes still closed."All human wisdom…is contained in these words…wait and hope."

Porthos looked at him. "Is that a quote by someone famous?"

Aramis smiled. "I just made it up."

Porthos laughed."Try to sleep," he said. "We'll be outta here tomorrow."

Aramis tried, but he didn't succeed very well; the pain kept him awake nearly the entire night. Porthos couldn't sleep while his friend was so miserable, plus he was worried about _how_ he would get Aramis out of the hole; they were about nine feet down, and there was nothing but debris all around them, with nothing they could stand on to reach.

Eventually, to make matters worse, it began to rain.

Porthos looked up in shock as soft drops started to gently fall through the massive hole in the roof. "You gotta be kiddin' me," he said aloud. It was cold enough in there...rain was the _last_ thing they needed.

Aramis lifted his head a little from his friend's shoulder. "What is it?" he practicaly slurred.

Porthos sighed. "It's raining."

As if to punctuate that statement, a drop landed on Aramis' nose. "Wonderful," he commented.

The rain wasn't heavy, but it was enough to make a bad situation worse. Porthos' cloak prevented their clothes from getting wet and they had their hats, but if anything could make them feel bleaker, it was rain.

"Better...than...snow," Aramis tiredly mumbled.

Porthos smiled at that. "Good point."

Still, it was very cold, and when the darkness outside started to lighten, Porthos could've jumped for joy; finally, he could figure out a way to get his friend out of that hole and home at the garrison where he belonged.

Aramis had eventually, _finally_ , fallen asleep—or passed out—and Porthos remained as motionless as possible as he looked around the hole to devise a way to get out...but nothing presented itself. The hole was filled with wood and debris from the upper floor, but there was nothing big enough to stand on or climb up.

Porthos was stunned; there was no way to get out.

"Hey! There's someone else in here!"

Porthos startled and looked up, seeing a man peering down. Someone else showed up a few seconds later, and they both looked down at their victims.

"We are King's Musketeers!" Porthos exclaimed, pulling his arm out from behind the now-awake Aramis so he could stand up. "If you don't get us out of here, you're going to regret it!"

Pierre shook his head and looked at his brother. "I guess there's only one thing left for us to do." With that, he disappeared and his brother followed.

Porthos looked down at Aramis, who looked pale and exhausted, shivering in the absence of his friend's body heat. In the light, the blood down the side of his head looked ghastly, and it was obvious that he was in pain.

"What…what are they…doing?" Aramis asked, sounding confused, his voice weaker.

Porthos sighed. "I dunno."

They waited for a few minutes, seeing and hearing nothing, until Porthos suddenly noticed a strange smell.

Smoke.

"They set a fire!" Porthos exclaimed, before running and taking a desperate, flying leap for the top of the hole. It was too high and he missed and landed on his feet, before turning around to see what he could pile up. There was nothing but splintered wood, and nowhere near enough to pile up three or four feet to stand on.

Aramis didn't expect the men to set a fire, and he painfully tried to stand up, using the wall for support.

Porthos saw him. "Sit down!" he exclaimed. He finished circling the hole, still finding no solution. Finally, there was only one thing to do. "HELP!" he shouted. "ANYONE OUT THERE?!"

Smoke started to make its way through the room and into the hole. Aramis coughed, and literally doubled over from the pain that it caused his broken collarbone.

Porthos continued to shout, and he eventually heard voices. "BACK HERE!" he called.

Faces suddenly appeared over the hole…and one of them was the drunk who had stolen Porthos' wine. "What are you doing down there?!" he exclaimed.

"Nevermind that, get us out!" Porthos answered.

The men all disappeared as they either tried to find a way, or decided that it was hopeless and ran back out to escape.

The fire was spreading, and the smoke was getting thicker. Aramis had sat back down and was holding his hat in front of his face, trying desperately not to cough.

Porthos realized that they were at the mercy now of the people who knew that they were in the building. There was nothing he could do except try to protect his injured friend, and he hurried over to him and knelt, sheltering Aramis with his own body. If fire was going to kill them, it would have to get through Porthos first.

Smoke continued to fill the hole and the sound of the flames was getting closer. Heat was filling the air, enough to make them forget that they were ever cold.

"Porthos," Aramis whispered, before coughing. He groaned and fisted his hand in his friend's doublet.

"Don't talk, save your breath," Porthos told him.

"Just…wanted you…to know…" Aramis painfully coughed again.

Porthos tightened his hold around his friend. "I know, Aramis. All for one?"

"And one for all," they said together.

The flames crept closer, and Porthos and Aramis remained huddled where they were, coughing from the smoke.

"Porthos!" they suddenly heard. "Aramis!" No voice had ever sounded so beautiful.

Porthos lifted his head up. "Athos!"

A familiar face suddenly appeared over the hole. "Climb up!" Athos exclaimed.

Porthos watched as a ladder suddenly appeared and was lowered into the hole. Quickly, he stood and pulled Aramis up with him, helping him get over to it. Forcing his friend to walk despite the gasps of agony and painful coughing was one of the hardest things Porthos had ever done, and when they reached the ladder, he put Aramis' right hand on the rung for him and helped push him up it.

The smoke was stinging Aramis' eyes, and climbing the ladder one handed while in terrible pain and hardly able to breathe was nearly impossible for him. If Porthos wasn't helping him from below, he wasn't sure if he would've made it.

Athos grabbed his friend's arm and helped pull him up, and by the time he got Aramis standing, Porthos had scrambled up the ladder.

Flames filled the doorway; there was no way to get through.

"This way!" Athos said.

Porthos followed his direction as they both pulled Aramis along, and they reached an open window. Athos quickly climbed out and reached in for Aramis, knowing that Porthos was the strongest and it would be quicker for him to get Aramis through.

Athos was right. Porthos quickly swept Aramis up into his arms and slid him out the widow feet first, where Athos grabbed him and pulled him away from the building.

Porthos climbed out next and ran after them. Once they were far enough away from the fire, they collapsed to the ground and sat coughing.

Aramis was gasping, bonelessly slumped against Porthos. He seemed unable to breathe: the pain of his broken collarbone and bruised ribs making him suppress the urge to cough.

Porthos automatically started rubbing his back. "Breathe, Aramis," he said. "Breathe!"

"What's wrong with him?" Athos asked, noticing that one arm was strapped to his body.

"Broken collarbone, bruised ribs," Porthos said. The head injury was obvious, with all the blood.

Aramis coughed, wincing deeply. He couldn't hold back a groan.

More musketeers surrounded them, bringing them horses. Athos sent one of them for a doctor, with instructions to bring him to the garrison.

"How did you find us?" Porthos asked, as he continued to rub Aramis' back.

"When the two of you weren't at morning muster and your beds hadn't been slept in, the entire regiment went looking for you," Athos said.

Aramis slumped even more against Porthos, still trying to breathe while trying to suppress the coughs.

"Let's get him back to the garrison," Athos said.

Porthos nodded and they carefully pulled Aramis to his feet. Getting him mounted wasn't easy, and Porthos swung up behind him before they rode off.

The pain from riding and lack of adequate oxygen quickly became too much for Aramis.

"He's out," Porthos nervously said.

"Good," Athos answered. "His lungs won't struggle while he's not awake to feel the pain."

That was true. They quickened their pace, and made it to the garrison just as d'Artagnan and Treville approached from different directions.

"What happened?!" Treville exclaimed.

"Long story," said Porthos, as he handed Aramis down to them. Quickly, they got Aramis upstairs and into his room, before they removed his jacket and the sash binding his arm to his body. The bruising over his broken collarbone had spread.

"Who did this to him?" d'Artagnan asked.

Porthos sighed, sat in a chair, and told them.

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When Aramis next opened his eyes, he was momentarily confused, not sure what had happened to cause the awful pain that coursed through his body. He shifted slightly and sucked in a breath from the resulting pain, but the air caught in his lungs and made him choke.

Porthos, who was dozing in a chair beside the bed, quickly sat up and reached forward, clasping his friend's good shoulder.

Aramis could taste smoke, and the memory of what had occurred quickly returned.

Athos and d'Artagnan came over to the bed, and one of them—Aramis wasn't sure who—held a cup of water to his lips and urged him to drink.

Aramis obeyed, still coughing in-between. After he finished drinking, he simply lay there and breathed, eyes once again closed.

The other three quietly watched him, giving him time to get his bearings. Porthos kept his hand on his friend's uninjured shoulder, and smiled at him when Aramis reopened his eyes.

Aramis tried to smile back, but the pain from his broken collarbone was sucking away all of the energy required to do so. He realized that he'd been reclined partly upright, and was glad; trying to sit up with a broken collarbone would be impossible otherwise.

"How do you feel?" Porthos asked.

Aramis nearly sighed, but caught himself in time, not wanting to cough again. "Like I was thrown…down a hole," he said, his voice sounding scratchy.

"We caught the men who did this to you," Athos said.

Aramis didn't expect to hear that. "My weapons?"

D'Artagnan pointed, to where they all lay atop the small table in the room.

Aramis closed his eyes with relief. His filigreed pistol was one of his most prized possessions.

"The doctor said you'll live," Porthos joked.

Aramis reopened his eyes and looked down at himself, finding his left arm strapped to his body again. He could feel a bandage around his ribs to protect the bruises, and a bandage around his aching head. "You caught them all?" he asked.

Athos nodded. "A man named Pierre and three others."

Aramis remembered seeing four men. He carefully nodded his head, closing his eyes and wincing when a spike of pain flashed through his shoulder.

"They'll never again attack the innocent," Athos continued.

Aramis reopened his eyes and turned his head a little to look at Porthos.

Porthos nodded. "Yeah, I told them what happened."

Aramis closed his eyes; the motion had made him dizzy. "I'm French," he said.

"Considering how people feel about the Spanish after the war," said Athos. " _That_ should be all that you tell anyone."

"Never expected…something like that," Aramis told them, breathing carefully to avoid coughing.

Porthos squeezed his good shoulder.

"Prejudice happens everywhere, Aramis," said Athos. "Where we'd least expect. Rest assured, we will never allow it to happen to _you_ again."

His words lent Aramis the strength to smile slightly through his pain. "All for one?"

Everyone else smiled back. "And one for all."

"Now sleep," said Athos.

Aramis obeyed and closed his eyes, confident in the fact that his brothers would always be there for him.

THE END


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